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anika-ann · 2 years

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On Va Voir, Ma Chérie (S.R.)

Type: Modern-college-professor AU - part of Attached series or a standalone

Pairing: Steve Rogers x reader Word count: 3000

Summary: You messed up. Again. Now you’re stuck with reading a stupid book for your class, in French, which you barely speak and you know you’re in for a long night.

Your favourite professor and fiancé in one person comes to your rescue. Suddenly it’s not all bad; it’s worse.

Warnings: 18+, smut (dry-humping, fingering),dirty talk, language kink and voice kink (hello self.-indulgence), French, ‘babygirl’ (no daddy kink), language

A/N: Either a standalone (becauseit’s just a prof Steve and language kink) or a part of the Attached series. Look at me crawling outta my hiatus just to share filth...

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You couldn’t believe you forgot. You couldn’t believe you forgot about this week’s reading for your European lit class.

You knew this week was going suspiciously smoothly.

The thing was, you loved literature – one might say you were contributing to literature with your writing after all – and you adored reading. So much that you decided to take course on European literature specifically. You could have picked an extra class on British lit, African authors, Australian authors, literally anything, but no. You chose this one. Like a dumbass.

That class was the bane of your existence for most of the time. There were many pieces of classics that Professor Michelson could have introduced you to, so many to choose from – but again, no. He chose romans and novels and poetry and plays that were--- not so great. Or they were perfectly readable and even enjoyable, but were virtually unknown to mankind.

Meaning that if you happened to forget or didn’t have time to read due to other duties (or simply didn’t want to), you couldn’t piece together your ‘personal impressions’ from the book from the omniscient narrator known as Google.

Such was the case of this week’s piece of oeuvre, a French play from the romanticism era called Chatterton. Which was fine. It was a play, which meant it would be short – three acts only, about hundred pages. It wasn’t like under normal circumstances, you wouldn’t handle it in an evening.

The problem was that having forgotten, you hadn’t made a reservation in the library and all the copies bar three were already borrowed.

The three remaining copies were in fucking French.

You stared at the book you had thrown onto your soon-to-be marital bed with dismay. You had taken two years of French in high-school as an elective and hadn’t really bothered with it since. There was no way you could read this damn book, so you resigned yourself to reading it with a translator – using it for about 80% of words. You hadn’t made it past the first few pages, already wanting to tear your hair out.

So you tossed the offending object on the bed. And now you decided to follow suit, plunging into the cushions headfirst, your whine muffled by the soft fabric.

It was how Steve found you an eternity later as you debated yourself whether it wouldn’t be better to play hooky tomorrow.

The mattress dipped under his weight as your fiancé sat down next to you, gentle hand caressing your back.

“No one to greet a tired man home?” he chuckled softly, eliciting a lame hum of sorry from you as you didn’t bother to move an inch – as much as you loved Steve. He was already touching you, there was no reason to make any more effort. More so when a kiss landed in your hair. “Long day?”

You hummed noncommittally. Yeah, it was gonna be with this hellish book.

“Chatterton?” Steve read the title questioningly, causing your breathing to hitch in surprise.

Oh god. It sounded French when he said it.

You rolled over in a lightning speed, staring at him in awe; he reciprocated with a quizzical gaze, eyebrows raised.

“Picking up le français, huh?”

“You speak French,” you blurted out with your heart having leapt to your throat. You sat up abruptly, visibly startling him. “How the hell didn’t I know you speak French? We’re about to get married this summer!”

“That we are,” he murmured, a slow smile spreading on his lips with a teasing edge. “Which is why I believe I deserve a welcome home…?”

You leaned in swiftly, pressing a brief kiss to his lips.

“Hi professor. Welcome home. You speak baguette?”

Steve burst out laughing, his hand clutching at your shoulder, keeping you close, puling you into kiss you without haste. He was smiling as his lips caressed yours, a courting dance tempting you to forget all about some silly book.

“Hey babygirl. I’m pretty sure it came up but must have slipped your mind. It’s been a while, I don’t really practise much these days. I’m pretty rusty,” he shrugged, almost sheepish.

Rusty. Right. You wouldn’t have it, excitement rising in your chest along with hope. Fair enough, Steve might have mentioned it before. But it must have been in passing and without you having time to investigate it at that moment. Now it seemed like as good of a time as any. Better even.

You let your fingers run along his beard, fingers catching on his chin to draw him in for one more kiss, earning an approving hum.

“Didn’t sound rusty. I believe I need your help, professor,” you whispered, brushing your lips against his, skimming over his cheek to his temple and back to his mouth, your fingers curling around his nape. The corners of his lips twitched at the blatant attempt at coaxing him into saying yes – before he’d even know what he was agreeing to. “Pretty please.”

His hands moved to your waist, squeezing the flesh, a chuckle escaping him when you pushed into him, offering your body as a promise to reward him for his service later – without shame. You truly needed him to help you. And ‘repaying’ him certainly wasn’t about to be an unpleasant act.

He tapped your bottom lip with his index finger playfully, meeting your gaze.

“What do you need, sweetheart?”

You smiled widely, reaching out for the Satan’s creation, holding it in the limited space between the two of you, both hands gripping it like a beast that might bite him unless you kept it on tight leash.

It might, you thought.

“I need to read this and write down a personal impression and some commentary to scenes that feel important. They were out of English translations. And this book is like… like censorship gods decided to kill it. There’s nothing on it online,” you explained your desperate situation, unable to help the accusatory tone from your voice.

Maybe you pouted a bit too.

“Michelson is at it again, huh?”

“Yes,” you cried pitifully, enforcing the pout until Steve pulled at your lower lip, letting it pop back quietly, one corner of his lips quirked. “You could just read a few pages here and there and tell me what’s happening? I know you brought some work home as always but… please?”

He didn’t even hesitate. You personal angel. And translator.

“Let me change and get something to drink.”

You squealed, pulling him in by the lapels of his jacket, slamming your lips against his and nearly knocking him over despite the impressive mass of muscle he was.

“You’re the best!”

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On a second thought, asking Steve was a terrible, terrible idea.

You settled at the headboard, leaning onto it with your laptop in your lap, fingers hovering above the keyboard as Steve slipped next to you, white t-shirt and grey sweats, pressing a kiss to your hairline before opening the book.

“Alright. I assume the opening scene is a good way to start. It might be important,” he sighed, flickering the pages until he found the first act. “Ready?”

“As I ever will be… take your time. I really appreciate you helping me so… no rush. I can be your personal translator in case you need it.”

Steve shot you a curious look which you rewarded with a smile, placed the book more between you so you were able to see the layout and he started reading.

Out loud.

“Il me semble que j’entends parler monsieur ; ne faites pas de bruit, enfants,” he begun, syllables rolling of his tongue almost effortlessly.

Your hand darted to his forearm, gripping it tight – about as tight as metaphorical hands tugged at your insides, causing your heart to stumble. His voice fell silent.

“What?”

“You—you don’t need to read it-“ you stuttered, your tongue feeling heavy. “It’s okay to just… tell me what’s going on.”

Steve shrugged. “Does it bother you? It’s just that you said a personal impression was what you needed and I thought I might as well use the practice since the opportunity presented.”

You swallowed thickly, nodding on autopilot. Right. He needed no fucking practice. You hadn’t met French people, but he sounded like one when reading and you were not ready for that.

“R-right. Go ahead. Whatever works for you.”

“Ne pensez-vous pas qu’il arrive quelque chose ? … Mon Dieu ! votre père est en colère ! certainement, il est fort en colère ; je l’entends bien au son de sa voix. — Ne jouez pas, je vous en prie, Rachel…“

You swallowed thickly, something warm fluttering inside your chest and below, quickly spreading like a fire.

En colère. You remembered that one. Angry. Riled up. your brain supplied helpfully.

Riled up you were already getting, more and more with every word that fell from Steve’s absolutely sinful mouth; small tugs in lower belly, causing you to minutely shift.

Alright. You clearly had a language kink. At least when it came to Steve speaking French. Lord help me.

You thought reading this book would be hell, but it seemed it would be purgatory.

“Il me semble qu’il s’apaise, n’est-ce pas, monsieur ?“

You took a shaky breath, closing your eyes for a moment and forced yourself to try and focus on the words, hoping to catch a familiar phrase at least.

Too bad Steve was already making you forget what words meant even in English... It was going to be a long read.

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Your eyes absently followed the text as Steve was finishing reading another scene he had randomly picked. You had long ago given up on trying to decipher what was going on with the plot, only mechanically writing down every English word Steve said when he tried to summarize a scene.

You couldn’t think straight. You couldn’t think at all.

Steve’s voice was seeping into your skin, inking into your flesh, piercing the marrow of your bones and filling it with unsatiable hunger. Your heart was racing in your chest, powerful thump-thump-thump against your sternum, the force shaking your ribcage, each beat sending fresh wanton through your veins, curling in your core and making it throb. Your head was filled with the image of Steve whispering sweet nothings – whatever they were in this unfairly attractive language spoken in his gravel voice – while his lips skimmed over your burning flesh, fingertips teasing sensitive parts of you he had had mapped out so well in the past, only to avoid your soaking core to torment you further.

The last part was not even an imagination of yours; your panties were positively damp, sticking to the cut of you uncomfortably; and it took all your willpower not to rub your thighs together every once in a while to relieve the pressure.

“Certainement cette jeune femme est fort malheureuse,“ Steve recited dutifully, causing your eyes to flutter shut, stiffening a laugh at the irony.

Yes, yes you were une femme who was fort malhereuse. Very unhappy with this situation you were. You couldn’t take it anymore, not a second longer.

You grabbed your laptop, darting from the bed, causing the torturous flow of words to cease, allowing you to finally breathe in freely.

“What’s wrong?” Steve asked, appearing genuinely puzzled as he followed you with his gaze, watching you settle the laptop on your desk with little care. “Are you alright?”

“No,” you grinded through your teeth, almost weeping in frustration as you strode back to him, the movement giving you at least the shred of friction you craved. “I’m really damn malhereuse.”

Steve’s eyebrows shot up in surprise as he blindly closed the book, his thumb staying inside to bookmark the page. He observed you, eyes roaming your figure, zeroing on your flustered face.

“Why?”

“Please put that book away,” you whispered, running a hand down your face.

Steve tilted his head to side like a confused puppy and how could he not notice, how could he be so blissfully unaware of how ridiculously sensual his reading was—but he obeyed, placing the open book on the nightstand, pages down.

You swallowed, eyes glued to how the fabric of his t-shirt stretched over his bicep and shoulder, the sight only adding insult to injury. The acute need inside you would make angels weep.

“Now what?” Steve questioned, slightly amused.

Now I want to choke on your dick and somehow have you filling me up at the same time. And Jesus, you couldn’t remember having thoughts this crude for a while now.

You licked your lips, shakily climbing to the bed, crawling over him until you straddled his lap; he watched you, baffled, but certainly not unpleasantly surprised. You nearly sighed in relief as your needy core met the semi-hard bulge between his legs.

You placed your palms over his shoulders, allowing him to see your lust-blown irises up close – and finally, recognition lit up his face, his cock twitching, causing you to whine because you certainly felt that. Fuck, you couldn’t even be mad for the smug smile curling up his lips as he dragged his warm palms up your thighs.

“Aw, ma chérie…” he muttered, his right hand grasping at your jaw, thumb stroking your cheek as his face gravitated to yours. “Est-ce que ma petite-amie aime quand je parle francais? Est-ce qu’elle est excitée? Est-ce que… elle est mouillée pour moi?“

You felt yourself melt into his front, shuddering as his nose tickled the side of your neck, lips skimming over your throat. You had only a half-idea of what he was saying but it didn’t matter in the slightest. Your hips involuntarily thrust forward, a breathless whine escaping your lips when he moved up to meet your core. Your fingers gripped at his shoulders, desperately seeking something to ground you because your head was now spinning like mad.

“Steve, I- please-”

“Fuck, I wouldn’t think… bien. Bien, ma chérie. Ma belle, belle fille… Je vais te donner ce que tu veux,” he whispered huskily, your hazy brain barely registering there was a promise there.

He did give you what you wanted; his lips slanted over yours in a searing-hot kiss, his fingers digging into your ass as his hips bucked up, forcing you to grind on his now rock-hard cock, causing the pressure in your core grow and grow, urging you to move faster-- but it was not enough, not nearly enough.

“Steve-“

He claimed your mouth again, free hand slipping under your shirt to undo your bra in one swift movement, having your breasts spill free for him to play with, to lightly pinch your nipple, the sensation like a hot rot stoking the fire in your core. When he released your lips to suck in air, he latched onto your throat instead, nibbling and sucking onto the side of your neck, the scratch of his beard increasing the sensations, fingertips stroking the underside of your breast teasingly.

“Oui, c'est ça, ma fille sage, ma bonne fille…” he muttered, voice dripping with dark satisfaction that only spurred you on, having you understand just enough to know he literally called you a good girl, nearly tipping you over the edge. “Prend ce dont tu as besoin... si belle, si éxigeante. J'ai hâte de te remplir, te baiser face contre le lit.”

You sobbed as the figurative rubber band inside you snapped, your muscles locking in place as euphoria filled you to the brim, wrapping you in utter bliss. Your core pulsed, painfully empty, leading you to press harder into Steve’s hard cock to feel something, to help you ride it out as your whole body trembled.

“Fuck, fuck-“

You were shoved to the side as gently as possible without losing momentum, crying out in surprise as your back hit the mattress, tearing you away from your fading paradise. Panting, you stared up to Steve’s face with shock as he now hovered above you, expression twisted in concentration, harsh breaths fanning your face.

“You’re too damn hot to handle,” Steve panted and through the fog of bliss, it dawned to you the he pushed you away to fight his own approaching high. “Magnifique.”

You whimpered silently at the shockwave the single word sent through you, eliciting a tired chuckle from Steve.

“Don’t you mock me, monsieur-“

“Oh I wouldn’t dare, mon cœur. But it is true I can’t wait to take you face down on this bed,” he admitted with a grin, eliciting a whine from you at the fresh surge of desire. Was that what he had said before? Jesus.

The idea struck you like a lightning, a spark of mischief flickering in your chest. If you could only…

Think, think, you surely remember something… You strained yourself, biting your cheek as you pushed to recall how conjugation worked.

“Qu'est-ce que…” you started, earning a curious tilt of his head and a raised eyebrow. “Alors, qu'est-ce que vous attendez, professeur?”

Steve shot you an incredulous look, mouth slightly agape, causing you to assume that having aimed to ask him what he was waiting for then, you more or less succeeded.

A startled cry escaped you as Steve’s body pinned you to the mattress, hands gripping your wrist on each side of your head, dark eyes hypnotizing you with lust.

“And you want me to believe you don’t remember your French, huh?” he challenged, slowly leaning in to plant a soft kiss just above your collarbone, drawing a gasp from you when he bit down playfully, his hand sneaking under the hem of your soaked leggings and panties. “Oh mon amour, mon coeur, mon âme… on va voir.”

On va voir indeed.

He slipped two fingers into your drenched core with ease, his mouth attached to yours, stealing the last remnants of oxygen from your lungs to feed it to the flames of your desire. It only burned hotter when he scissored his thick fingers and finally worked on filling you up like no one else could.

He wasn’t the only one looking forward to fucking your face first on your soon-to-be marital bed.

You simply couldn’t wait either.

Because merde, did Steve always gave it to you good.

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S.R. masterlist

Attached masterlist

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Pardon my French. Literally. I might be studying it, but I was very distracted when having Steve speak French. And in dirty talk efficient I am not.

In case you didn’t catch the translations of Steve’s phrases I tried to incorporate in the text (sans one), I’m offering a small list of translations. The lines from the book aren’t important.

So, we have various terms of endearment here: ma chérie – my dear (f), ma belle fille – my beautiful girl, mon amour – my love, mon cœur – my heart, mon âme – my soul. Magnifique – gorgeous (magnificent).

“Est-ce que ma petite-amie aime quand je parle francais? Est-ce qu’elle est excitée? Est-ce que… elle est mouillée pour moi?“ “Does my girlfriend like it when I speak French? Is she turned on? I wonder… is she wet for me?”

“Oui, c'est ça, ma fille sage, ma bonne fille… Prend ce dont tu as besoin... si belle, si éxigeante. J'ai hâte de te remplir, te baiser face contre le lit.” “Yeah, that’s it, my obedient girl, my good girl… Take what you need… so beautiful, so needy. I can’t wait to fill you up, to fuck you face first on the bed.”

“Alors, qu'est-ce que vous attendez, professeur?” “So what are you waiting for, professor?”

Do I really need to translate On va voir? 👀

If I have a native speaker among you, please, reach out and correct me 💗

Thank you for reading 😘 Feedback always appreciated.

#steve rogers x reader #steve rogers x you #professor steve rogers #steve rogers imagine #steve rogers fluff #steve rogers smut #modern au #professor au #college au #Attached #on va voir ma cherie #anika ann

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damcned · 6 years

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why dont you CUT YOUR POSTS???

because most of the time i forget and/or i am tired. i am sorry but you could be nice, you know? or if you had spoken to me about that issue, again, kindly or so speak to me to im? or isn’t fashionable anymore, this kind of thing?

#mun chitty -do do #sorry again #but being nice has always been a lesson to me #and patience #if you are not patient #oh well #c'est pas ma faute cherie #va voir ailieurs #c'est assez sample #Anonymous

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pizza-portal · 3 years

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please a smut inspired by this..🥺🥺🥺🥺😢😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭

Ma Belle

Pairing: Charles Leclerc x Reader

Warnings: brat kink, oral (m receiving), French dirty talk

Charles sat on the couch with his phone in his hand while he aimlessly scrolled through Instagram. He had been waiting for y/n to get changed for about ten minutes. He didn’t mind. Though they were just getting lunch with a few of his mates and their girlfriends, she still like to make herself look presentable and together.

Y/n walked out of the bedroom in a blue mini skirt and a white long sleeve crop top. Her skirt met just a few inches under where her bum ended. As she shifted on her shoes, Charles looked up at her.

“Cherie,” he warned. She just ignored him, grabbing all her stuff together. When she leaned down to grab her purse, Charles could see the white lace of her panties underneath. “No, no, no. Go change.” he told her.

“Charles, it’s not that big of a deal. You’re being dramatic,” she rolled her eyes.

“Fine,” Charles sighed annoyingly, clasping his hands together and leaning back. He brought his phone over his crotch to hide the blood that was draining to it. “If you won’t change, then we won’t go.” Y/n could see how much he tried to hide the affect her outfit had in him. She smiled to herself.

“Please Charles,” she whimpered. That only mad his position worse.

“Go change,” he says again. She walks towards him, resting her hands on his knees. Charles swallowed hard, not wanting to back down from her. His eyes drifted to her cleavage before looking back up into her eyes.

“No,” she responds. He sighs loudly, letting his head fall back. He had a bittersweet relationship with her stubbornness. Her being a brat always turned him on to the max, yet, as if right now, that was the last thing he needed.

She got onto her knees. “What’s wrong?” she questioned. “Am I being too bad?”

“Yes, now can you please go change?” he leaned forward. She shook her head. “Ma Belle-”

“You can call me beautiful when I am sucking you off,” she told him bluntly. Her hands roamed his thighs, while she bit your lip. He sighed, leaning back.

“Alors vas-y,” he told her, giving her the right of way to do her dirty work. Her hands slid up the denim over his thighs, only for him to widen his position a little bit. She reaches for his button and zipper, gently undoing the two.

There was a bulge beneath his underwear. Y/n knew he wasn’t that hard yet. She gently placed small kisses over the fabric, still rubbing his thighs. “Merde,” he hissed, adjusting himself to pull his pants farther down. Finally, they just sat at a puddle around his ankles.

Y/n’s hands started to palm him through the boxers. “Vous aimez ça non?” She whispered to him, turning him on even more. “Tu aimes me voir à genoux.” Charles bit his lip. She felt him getting harder and harder. “Aww, si dur baby.” She mumbled before pulling down the boxers. The tip was tinted red while the shaft easily stayed up on its own.

Y/n took her time, gently stroking him. She pressed small kisses to it, here eyes stayed on Charles’s expression, which was absolutely beautiful to her. “Baby, s’il te plaît,” Charles begged. Y/n ran her tongue up his cock, causing a groan to escape Charles lips as he through his head back. She stopped at the tip, kissing it gently. She opened her mouth, only putting the tip in and sucking. Her hands expertly caressed his shaft. “More, more.” He gasped, his hips bucking towards her face more. Slowly, she let herself go deeper down until his tip hit the back of her throat. As she slid back up, her tongue ran against the shaft again. Before her lips could leave him, Charles gripped her hair and pushed her back down again. She moaned against him. The vibrations from her through shot through Charles, causing him to moan. He took a few deep breaths, watching his dick disappear into her mouth. Meanwhile, her tongue explore every square-centimeters of him.

He stood up quickly, his hands forming a small ponytail out of her hair. He began to guide her movements, pushing himself deeper into her throat only to move back out. He began to move faster. “Ma belle,” he moaned, watching himself fuck her face. As he got deeper into her throat, y/n couldn’t help but choke with small tears forming around her eyes. Finally, he pulled out and y/n knew to open her mouth for the juices that would be flowing out in just a few seconds. Charles finally came, strings of it falling onto her tongue. He fell back down onto the couch, deep breaths escaping his lips.

“Can you go change now?”

“No,”

a/n: I have a Daniel Ricciardo story sitting in my notes app. I might publish it in here but I’m not sure yet :)

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pixelatedflood · 5 years

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3 raisons d’arrêter de tirer la sonnette d’alarme pour la fuite des cerveaux

Guide des responsables "choqués”

« Tirer la sonnette d’alarme », « exprimer l’inquiétude », « reporter les chiffres choquants », etc. à en croire notre gouvernement (et tous les gouvernements qui l’ont précédé pour être honnête), on ne peut pas répondre autrement aux conséquences terribles de ce qu’on adore appeler “la fuite des cerveaux”. J’aime comparer cette attitude quasi-criminellement passive de la part des responsables qui ont toutes les clés en main à ce ridicule « choqué mennek » que le raciste profère dans l’épisode de « Hethoukom » quand on lui dénonce son racisme. Il n’y a pas de quoi être choqués les gars, je vous assure.

J’avais déjà écrit un petit article plus illustré et plus détaillé là-dessus mais je pense qu’il est urgent de revisiter la question puisque la question continue de revenir et le cycle de tirage de la sonnette d’alarme (et rien de plus) par nos gouvernements ne cesse de se reproduire. Et cette fois je vais être moins philosophique et plus concret.

Il n’y a vraiment aucune raison objective pour lister 3 raisons, mais comme c’est mon premier « listicle » je n’ai pas envie de vous ennuyer. Une liste plus complète serait certainement plus longue. J’essaye ici simplement de résumer ce que j’avais décrit en détail dans mon précèdent article sur la question.

1) L’économie nationale n’est pas en manque de compétences qui sont en fuite

Il va de soi que ce ne sont pas nécessairement les meilleurs qui partent, ou ceux qui auraient bénéficié le plus au tissu économique local. Celui qui part n’a souvent aucune raison objective majeure pour rester, et cherche des avantages qui n’existent pas de toute façon chez les employeurs Tunisiens (rémunération, opportunités de développement, etc.). Sinon comment se fait-il qu’on a tellement de jeunes diplômés au chômage? Il faut voir la « fuite des cerveaux » comme solution spontanée à ce problème. C’est structurellement logique aussi, qu’un pays qui produit autant de diplômés ne puisse pas les employer tous surtout avec un tout petit marché de 10-12 millions de résidents. Arrêtons alors de perpétuer ce mythe que l’on est en train de perdre une ressource non-remplaçable à cause de l’immigration qualifiée.

2) Le niveau de vie pour le même boulot est nettement meilleur en Europe

Pour détailler un peu plus l’idée de devoir « lutter beaucoup plus en Tunisie pour atteindre des objectifs plus facilement atteignables ailleurs », que j’avance à partir de mon expérience personnelle étant « un cerveau qui a fui le pays » moi-même, laissez-moi vous donner deux exemples concrets. Concrets comme : « show me the money ».

Un ingénieur junior, débutant, mais vraiment tout à l’heure sorti de l’université, est payé en Tunisie pas plus que 1000 TND net par mois (et ça c’est pour les chanceux), alors qu’en France ou en Allemagne il est payé au moins 2000€ net par mois. Juste pour comparer, le loyer d’un appart digne pour une famille au voisinage de la technopole d’El-Ghazala coute 500-600 dinars en moyenne, 50% du salaire d’ingénieur débutant en Tunisie, alors qu’un appart en France/Allemage coute 500-600 € par mois en moyenne, 25% du salaire d’ingénieur débutant en France.

Autre exemple : acheter une voiture neuve en Tunisie devient de plus en plus impossible. La voiture neuve la moins chère en Tunisie (selon automobile.tn) est la Chery QQ, qui coute 19990 TND, soit presque 20 salaires mensuels de notre ingénieur débutant en Tunisie. J’ai eu du mal à trouver le prix de cette voiture en France ou en Allemage (je vous assure), et j’ai fini par chercher la voiture neuve la moins chère en France selon autoplus.fr, bon il y a la Twizy électrique, mais voyons les voitures à essence : la Dacia Logan à 7900€, soit 4 salaires mensuels de notre ingénieur débutant en France.

3) Le « shaming » ne marche pas :

Oui on part chercher la vie plus facile, oui on part chercher plus d’argent, oui on part voyager et vivre comme de petits richards. ET ALORS ? Alors l’alternative c’est soit lutter beaucoup plus pour atteindre ces objectifs en Tunisie ou bien rester, vivre la misère et la fermer alors qu’on pourrait vivre 10 fois mieux en faisant le même boulot ailleurs ? News flash : c’est con. Personne ne te doit rien. Les arguments du genre « restez dans le pays qui a pris soin de vous et développez-le au lieu de chercher votre intérêt financier », « remboursez le pays qui a pris soin de vous » sont cons pour deux raisons :

1. Si quelqu’un a bénéficié des services gratuits de l’état, cela ne définit en rien où et comment il doit mener le reste de sa vie : qu’il finisse en prison, employé en Tunisie ou ailleurs n’est pas important dans le fait qu’il mérite ces services simplement par son appartenance au peuple, qui paye pour que tous aient ces services gratuits. Tous les citoyens ont ce droit et n’ont d’obligation en contrepartie que de respecter la loi et payer leurs impôts. Personne ne doit rembourser quoi que ce soit, c’est des droits universels pour tout citoyen, parce que le système politique/social/légal le veut ainsi.

2. Tout être humain est en plein droit de mettre son propre intérêt avant celui d’autrui tant que c’est légal. Et à ce que je sache, c’est encore légal dans notre pays de vivre là où on veut et de faire ce qu’on veut de sa vie. Si tu veux retenir quelqu’un en Tunisie, offre-lui mieux, c’est le seul moyen logique et productif pour faire face à ce phénomène. Mais qu’un responsable qui se fait payer des milliers de dinars de l’argent du contribuable et se fait conduire quotidiennement en Mercedes depuis sa villa subventionnée vient dire à un jeune qui part de zéro de rester pour l’amour du pays n’est en droit d’espérer que d’être complètement ignoré.

Pour finir une dernière recommandation : ce n’est pas ma responsabilité en tant que citoyen ni celle de quelconque autre citoyen de trouver ou proposer des solutions à ce problème (s’il existe vraiment), c’est la responsabilité de nos élus et fonctionnaires de l’état qui sont payés de l’argent du contribuable pour faire ce travail.

Par conséquent, il est temps mesdames et messieurs les responsables/élus de la fermer avec cette « sonnette d’alarme » et de mériter son salaire.

#tunisie #fuite #cerveaux #immigration #diplomes #chomage #emploi #niveau de vie #langue de bois

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